Born of graves
And Left below
And Left below
Denocte had been intriguing thus far, while it was a far cry from the political powerhouse his home had once been, the subtle nuances of the life had caught his interest, the people moreso. There were those who walked the shadows as well, if not even better, than himself, those who regarded the world with eyes that showed nothing. There were spies, dancers, thieves and assassins. He had seen a beguiling mare rob a poor wanderer blind, had seen a gypsy colt stealth into a gathering and remain unseen, he had even witnessed the cold ferocity of a mare that had caught him trailing her from the dark. The latter had been the most startling, for her perception in uncovering him. Truly, the raven was among his people now.
So why did he still feel the clawing pain of nothingness in his chest?
Ever since he had emerged from his slumber he had been restless, aching as if something crucial had been cut away like rotten flesh from a wound, yet still that wound did not heal closed. He felt disorientated, aimless, and within the depths of his mind he mocked himself for it. Here he was, playing socialite, living the life of someone 'normal', rather than doing what he had intended originally when entering the land of Novus. The Pretender, living the life of a commoner, of a no-body. Did that mean then... he was no longer Ammon? No longer the Hidden One if he had nothing to hide for? Why should he continue to be the Pretender if he was but a single, archaic raven among a flock of clever new crows?
It was a sour thought on his tongue as he walked through the halls of the Keep, aimlessly, pointlessly exploring the nuances of his new residence. Sour was the turning of his mind, until his keen ears caught the weakest of cries down a hallway leading to the Sovereign's rooms. Normally, he would not have given it a second thought, but this cry had not been one of pleasure, but rather of despair, and that drew the raven like moth to flame. He turned down the hallway, rounding a curve to find collapsed upon the stone earthworks a stallion. He was shriveled, skin strung tight to bone, pathetic in his clawing attempts to reach the Sovereign's door. For a moment, Ammon looked at the stallion with nothingness, feeling and expressing nothing as he watched the crowned stag take a weak step forward to the door.
Then it was as if he had been slammed back in time-
the earth choked him, stagnant air hardly filling his once mighty lungs. There was only darkness, and with each breath a darkness of a different sort pressed around him, the suffocating hand of Death itself covering his mouth and nose. He fought, he thrashed and raged with weakened limbs against the earth surrounding him, clawing so desperately until with an abyssal scream, the withered Rook hauled himself from the earth-
He moved almost without thought, shifting to press his larger bulk to the weakened stallion's, his neck bending low to carefully slide his head under the other's forelegs(wary of his antlers), and with a low grunt he heaved the other onto his back. Even emaciated, the other stag was heavy, Ammon's legs protesting the strain, but he slammed shut the corner of his mind that cried out in pain. "The Sovereign will wait." He spoke softly, baritones ringing out clear and without strain (though had he not been so controlling even then, they would have surely been strained and faint) as he began to move with slow, solid steps towards the infirmary, red insides of his nostrils flaring with each harsh breath.
Why he was helping this wretched creature was beyond him. Perhaps he was slipping into 'Vasher' too much, as he once had with 'Gracifilis' so long ago... but the thought of continuing to watch the wretch struggle towards the Sovereign's door, weakened to the point of critical danger... it sparked something in him, something he couldn't name. That same something gave him the determination to keep walking even under the bulk of a man he did not know was his Regent.
So why did he still feel the clawing pain of nothingness in his chest?
Ever since he had emerged from his slumber he had been restless, aching as if something crucial had been cut away like rotten flesh from a wound, yet still that wound did not heal closed. He felt disorientated, aimless, and within the depths of his mind he mocked himself for it. Here he was, playing socialite, living the life of someone 'normal', rather than doing what he had intended originally when entering the land of Novus. The Pretender, living the life of a commoner, of a no-body. Did that mean then... he was no longer Ammon? No longer the Hidden One if he had nothing to hide for? Why should he continue to be the Pretender if he was but a single, archaic raven among a flock of clever new crows?
It was a sour thought on his tongue as he walked through the halls of the Keep, aimlessly, pointlessly exploring the nuances of his new residence. Sour was the turning of his mind, until his keen ears caught the weakest of cries down a hallway leading to the Sovereign's rooms. Normally, he would not have given it a second thought, but this cry had not been one of pleasure, but rather of despair, and that drew the raven like moth to flame. He turned down the hallway, rounding a curve to find collapsed upon the stone earthworks a stallion. He was shriveled, skin strung tight to bone, pathetic in his clawing attempts to reach the Sovereign's door. For a moment, Ammon looked at the stallion with nothingness, feeling and expressing nothing as he watched the crowned stag take a weak step forward to the door.
Then it was as if he had been slammed back in time-
the earth choked him, stagnant air hardly filling his once mighty lungs. There was only darkness, and with each breath a darkness of a different sort pressed around him, the suffocating hand of Death itself covering his mouth and nose. He fought, he thrashed and raged with weakened limbs against the earth surrounding him, clawing so desperately until with an abyssal scream, the withered Rook hauled himself from the earth-
He moved almost without thought, shifting to press his larger bulk to the weakened stallion's, his neck bending low to carefully slide his head under the other's forelegs(wary of his antlers), and with a low grunt he heaved the other onto his back. Even emaciated, the other stag was heavy, Ammon's legs protesting the strain, but he slammed shut the corner of his mind that cried out in pain. "The Sovereign will wait." He spoke softly, baritones ringing out clear and without strain (though had he not been so controlling even then, they would have surely been strained and faint) as he began to move with slow, solid steps towards the infirmary, red insides of his nostrils flaring with each harsh breath.
Why he was helping this wretched creature was beyond him. Perhaps he was slipping into 'Vasher' too much, as he once had with 'Gracifilis' so long ago... but the thought of continuing to watch the wretch struggle towards the Sovereign's door, weakened to the point of critical danger... it sparked something in him, something he couldn't name. That same something gave him the determination to keep walking even under the bulk of a man he did not know was his Regent.
SKELVOI
@Camdis - surprise void pon is to the rescue
